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Tuesday, 19 December 2006

INFAMY

“Infamy! Infamy! They’ve all got it infamy!” or so Franki Howerd went. Well I know what he was talking about. Tonight was a wine tasting I had been looking forward to for ages. A lively discussion with Lynnie just before leaving ensured I was going there alone… another fence to mend there later, then.

I had not been outside today (ooh; looked nasty & cold) so when it was time to go, was shocked & amazed to find I could not open the car doors as they were totally iced up. Then there was the small matter of dealing with the windscreen and side windows, encased in almost sheet ice and where was the scraper thing? Nowhere – that’s where. Arrived late at the tasting. The nice chap had waited for me, along with twenty other impatient slurpers. He knew I could not keep away. The drugs trade could learn a thing or two from that young man. I slid silently to the back of the room to take up position with my sheet of paper and glass, but mercifully near the bread, crackers and cheeses.

He led us cleverly through his list, crafted to perfection to ensure that your old favourites just couldn’t quite cut it with the next slightly more expensive glass.

And I was spitting it all out! Make note to diary for the next tasting – BE NICE TO LYNNIE! (For days before the tasting) Life can be a cruel mistress. Sensational wines in the spittoon!

I have got the Christmas cards away at last but I need to do the village cards next as Lynnie is off to Milan for a few days and so It Is Down To Me.

Does she know what she is doing, this wife of mine? I know them all to nod to, not quite sure who is married to who, who is still living with who and who is now living with someone else’s wife or where exactly they all live, apart from ‘a bit further up the lane on the right’.

Why can’t they make Christmas Cards all the same size? I hate having handfuls of odd shaped cards all jumbled up. They need to be all sorted in size order before they can be carried around the village, but then they are in the wrong order to be posted.

I know: I will ask Maurice. He knows where everyone lives as he’s our wonderful postman. Better still, I could slip him a few bob and perhaps he could deliver them all to the correct houses? Nothing like a bit of free enterprise.

Knowing my luck, he will be an honest postman and ask me to stick horrid gummy stamps on the horrid recycled envelopes containing the horridly irregular shaped cards inside.

I will be A Dead Man. (Again)

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